
nin.. PS 3.^ 4 5 

Book A^3S)h 



Copyright N?. 



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A 



COHMGHT DEPOSIT. 



DON FOLQUET 
AND OTHER POEMS 



BY THE SAME AUTHOR 

GARDENS OVERSEAS 
AND OTHER POEMS 
THE PRISON SHIPS 
AND OTHER POEMS 
THE PILGRIM KINGS 
AND OTHER POEMS 

THE HISPANIC 

ANTHOLOGY 



DON FOLQUET 

AND OTHER POEMS 



BY 

THOMAS WALSH 



NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY 

LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD 

MCMXX 



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PrP^ Ait 



1^6^ 



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Copyright, 19 19, by 
JOHN LANE COMPANY 



^fAK I 3 1220 



Press o{ 

J. J. Little & Ives Company 

New York, U. S. A. 



0)Ci.A566061 



TO 

JOHN BUNKER 

POET AND COMRADE 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Don Folquet ^ I3 

Arifa "The Tree of Light" ... 67 

MuRiLLo Paints "The Assumption'* . 80 

Mother Goose Sonnets 89 

humpty dumpty 90 

Little Miss Moffet 91 

The Sprats 92 

The Philosophers 93 

To Banbury Cross 95 

Bo-Peep 96 

Madam O'Shoe 97 

One Contrary 98 

Boy Blue 99 

On the Tree-Top 100 

Mother Hubbard loi 

In the Cafe Europa 103 

The Saving Virtues 107 

The Widowy Drone 109 

An Autumn Song no 

The Sea-Woman 1 13 

ix 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Brown-Stone Row ii6 

Catullus Anent His Lesbia . . . 119 

Guitar Song 120 

To Joyce Kilmer — July 30, 1918 . . 121 

The Sigh for Deirdre 126 

The Mothers of Heaven . . . . 128 

Ad Limina 130 

Nightingale TO THE Lark .... 131 

Algonkin Spring . 132 

Fulfilment 135 



DON FOLQUET 
AND OTHER POEMS 



DON FOLQUET 



I 



The apple orchards on the hills were white 

With blossoms, and the languid clouds 
beyond 

Lifted like polar mountains in the blue. 

There where the little road went down the 
vale 

Beside the River Argens, Folquet heard 

The springtime murmuring across the 
lands, 

The chirruping of birds, the herdsman's 
voice. 

The human echoes from the fields afar. 

And yet he came not from his hidden lodge 

Among the trees, but with a thoughtful 
eye 

He marked the throngs of dames and gal- 
lants pass 

Upon their dappled palfreys, brightly gay, 

Under the blosmy archway of the road, 
13 



DON FOLQUET 

Even though at times amid their mirth a 

lute 
Struck careless off a broken stave or two 
Of his auhade "The Blossom Time of 

Spring" — 
Struck careless — but amid his sombre 

mood 
He hardly heard, so deep was he in 

thought. 
What had come o'er him — once the gayest 

voice 
Of all the choristers of love — that he 
Had fallen from grace within so many a 

bower, 
And, half-forgotten, felt no joy awake 
At May's returning? — he whose song of 

old 
Was fabled for its springtime melody; 
He who once led the fairest troop afield, 
Won beauty's rarest favors and the name 
Of "Prince of Poets" in the northern 

lands; 
He, for whose smile the grandest dame 

was feign 
To pledge her honor, for whose meed of 

song 

14 



DON FOLQUET 

The haughtiest lord forgot his lowly birth, 

And bade him welcome to his halls of 
state. 

Nigh fifteen years had passed since that 
spring morn 

When he, a stripling grown, full tall and 
fair 

Came first to join the hillside jousts of 
song. 

He could recall the older singers' smiles. 

As in his heavy robes of silk and furs, 

His chain of gold, his jewelled cap and 
belt. 

He, the rich trader's son of old Mar- 
seilles, 

Struck his first preludes as they moved 
aside. 

And how the listless dames with sly re- 
mark 

Measured his lithesome form, and subtly 
scanned 

His cheek half blushing, and would meet 
his glance 

Soft with the spring and shaded 'neath the 
sweep 

Of ebon lashes and entangled hair. 
15 



DON FOLQUET 

And when the Countess at his salutz' close 
Leant from her rustic throne and smiling 

bade 
Him welcome, 'twas the very breath of 

heaven; 
He felt his life Indeed begin; the warmth 
Of all his boyhood leaped Into his eyes. 
Then when the gallant company arose 
Upon her signal, moving toward her halls, 
As in a trance he fed upon her grace, 
Trembled at every pulsing of her breast. 
With heart's suspense at each intending 

step; 
Until the kindly Abbot at his ear 
Whispered, — "Son, take thy lute and fol- 
low, where 
Beauty and Heart's Delight and Glory 

call."^ 
So from that day he sat beside her chair, 
And marked the envious lordlings whisper- 
ing round; 
Heard the old poets singing of old days, — 
Though she, the far-famed Magnet of 

the North, 
Lent ear to him alone. She was the sun 
i6 



DON FOLQUET 

That set his heart abloom, his songs broke 
forth 

Like morning blossoms. At their lady's 
joy 

Her maiden throngs took up and passed 
along 

The countersign till all the land was gay 

Because Alazais placed her love in him. 

In memory too came back that twilight 
hour 

When she within the tower with him alone 

Said sweetly, — "Knight, you seek a lady's 
love. 

Yet never speak her name." And he re- 
plied, — 

"She Is too great a crown for my poor 
heart 

To wear, but it grows larger at the 
thought 

Of her."— "Thy modesty, Don Folquet, 
well 

Gives augury of thy success in love. 

But scarcely in thy heart the passion glows. 

There is a lady here that holds thee well 

And fain would form thee for the cour- 
tier's part. 

17 



DON FOLQUET 

Kneel thou and kiss my hand, for I do take 
Upon me thine instruction." And he bent 
Upon his knee, when she with sudden 

hands 
Clasped his young cheeks and pressed a 

kiss upon 
His boyish mouth. . . . Suddenly a deep 

blush 
Swept his whole body, head to foot, for 

ne'er 
Before, save at his mother's lips, had he 
Known kisses, and the surging wave that 

stirred 
From novel passions threatened to o'er- 

whelm 
His senses. Then she smoothed his hair, 

arranged 
His pourpoint; tightened up his garter- 
bands, 
And promised him a gift of perfumed soap 
To make his daily bath. Full soon a squire 
And pawing steed she sent to wait him, 

black 
And sleek, below the tower stair, to bear 
Him forth in Sire Barral's proud train, on 

days 

i8 



DON FOLQUET 

Of hunt or festival. Ah, fleeting years 
Of carollings at Eastertide; and groups 
Beneath the apple-blossoms; of harvest- 
songs 
Amid the spurting grapes ; of Noel watch 
At midnight and the crackling of the logs 
In the great hall where they would sit 

around! 
And then the change — when all the world 

of grace 
Was tuneful with his praise, when dame 

with dame 
Competed for his singing, and even 

Eudoxia, 
The Grecian emperor's daughter, strove 

in vain 
To lure him to her amorous northern 

towers ! — 
He had achieved the triple crowns — held 

gold 
In plenteous store for every need; and 

fame 
Fulfilling all his dreams of song; and love, 
The fairest hand in Christendom had 

signed 

19 



DON FOLQUET 

That he might hope; the lips to which 

noblesse 
And courtesy gave primal place had 

pledged 
Him servitor with the solemn kiss that 

made 
His sovereignty in love's imperial courts. 
But yet, the change, that 'mid it all began 
Within his heart; the voice that ceaseless 

asked, — 
"Why sing — there is no more to gain; why 

hoard — 
Thou canst dispense no more; why love, 

poor moth, — 
Thy silken web is spun but to impede 
The wing with which thy soul would fain 

escape. 
Thou art like some poor Paynim maid who 

longs 
To change her freedom for the latticed 

bowers 
Behind the Soldan's citadels; who when 
She finds her warmest wish fulfilled, at 

last 
Amid the gardens of her soul's desires, 
20 



DON FOLQUET 

Finds herself also changed, and sighs in 

vain 
For desert wildness 'mid her golden 

cage." 
Yes, through it all the solemn voice kept 

on 
Though he would twang his gayest string 

and lead 
Gallants and ladles, through his maddest 

routs, 
Thinking to still it — but in vain. And 

when 
Upon the castle terrace in the moon 
He struck the oldtime serenades of love 
His fingers half refused the amorous task 
From which onetime they hardly were re- 
strained; 
The glowing passion and luxuriant wealth 
Of Fancy faded from his verse and left 
Dry wisdom to infuse his pohshed tropes 
And metres stately cold as colonnades. 
That left the heart as cold. And when 

the hand 
He sought was granted to his lips, he 

found 
A pleasure half malign to read the bone 
Zi 



DON FOLQUET 

And sinew through its velvet white, and 

felt 
Distaste at all the courtly mockery, 
Like a sick eye upon the senseless flowers. 
So it had been these latter years, until 
The mood upon him showed athwart the 

mask 
Gay years and forms had set upon him, till 
The smile with which he opened every 

heart 
Grew sharp and knowing, and the soulful 

eye, 
Opulent of vision, lost its glow and showed 
At times a rodent craft and scorn of all. 
And soon the ears that harkened him alone 
Craved various entertainment of the lutes 
That came in wandering trains unto the 

courts — 
Some Eastern jongleur in a Templar's 

suite; 
Some mime Italiot in an Abbot's court, — 
And when he would rehearse some classic 

theme, 
Trace the awakening of the poet's soul. 
Or point the silent path of contemplation, 

22 



DON FOLQUET 

Such vagrant roisterers would raise at 

times 
A rigadoon that set the hall afoot, 
A mad stampida until one by one 
His reverent group would steal to join the 

crowd, 
Whose riotous laughter gained and gained 

until 
It drove him from the court. — 

And so he kept 
Disdainful state within his little lodge 
Between the hills where Argens flowing 

smooth 
Wound its fine silver spiral to the sea; 
Where night and morning alternated calm; 
Among his squires, a faithful lad or two. 
He found the shining days beget remorse; 
A heavy tome at nightfall by the lamp, 
A glass with some wayfaring Crusader, 
Or boon companion from the abbey near; 
A frolic with his gray Italian hounds; 
And now and then some jongleur faring 

by 

Would stay the night to raise the oldtime 
songs 

23 



DON FOLQUET 

Or learn the new ones; or some graver 

sage, 
Come from the court or from some for- 
eign land, 
Bespoke him "Master" and did reverence 
For some far prelate, lord or chatelaine, — 
To this, to this alone his dreams had 

ledl— 
This promise of eternity of Fame 
When all the idle singers of the day 
Should be as though they never lived, or 

sang. 
The while his studied song — held now but 

craft 
And studious research — should be re- 
ceived 
As mould immortal of a mind supreme ! 
How cold the heights to which his stars 

had ledl 
Now too, when through the apple-blossoms 

came 
The laughter bringing to his heart again 
An oldtime flutter hardly stilled as yet, 
Was It for him no more? Scarce thirty 
years 

24 



DON FOLQUET 

Had passed upon his head, where not a 

touch 
Of gray was visible, his supple form 
But for an added grandeur had exchanged 
The lithesomeness of youth; the trace of 

thought 
Had but infused his eyes with greater fire 
And marked him out among the chiefs of 

men. 
The field and tourney and the hunting days 
Had set a touch of mastery in his mien, 
While song and lady's bower had given 

the grace 
Of flowing vesture and unstudied pose. 
With these was he to be forgotten? — no, 
Although the prize seemed worthless, he 

would play 
The piteous game again, — tonight — to- 
night. — 
Yellow the moon upon the far campaign; 
It was a night for love, — how many, oh, 
How many such his memory harvested 
In honey-stores ! — The bells struck out the 

hour 
Of nightly office from the distant tower; 
The air was heavy with memorial scents 
25 



DON FOLQUET 

Of roadside blooms that rose as ghosts 

again, 
And o'er them hung in springtime Penta- 

cost 
The trailing fireflies with their tongues of 

flame. 
Soon up the pathways of the town his 

steed 
Began to bear him. Well the portals 

knew 
His stately mien; the castle court stood 

wide 
For days and nights of peace; the lighted 

hall 
Resounded with the chatter as of old; 
The windows streamed aglow; the jesters' 

bells, 
The tuning lute, the laughter long and 

hoarse 
Of kitchen wenches with their amorous 

swains 
And guardsmen sounded 'round at his 

approach. 
Then the great doors swung open, and he 

passed 
From the blue phosphor into golden light. 
26 



DON FOLQUET 

Then the good Sire Barral cried welcome 

hale ; 
The ladies rose and curtsied; all the lutes 
Grew silent, and the youthful singers 

gazed 
Reverent on his noble form; while awed 
Stood strangers in the hall — a travelling 

friar, 
A jongleur bound for far Auvergne, a 

Moor 
Of Tripoli, a wealthy rabbin clad 
In velvets, furs and heavy chain of gold. 
The shaggy hounds glared long from 

where they stretched 
Along the pavement, where the pages 

scarce 
Had ceased their boyish gambols, and the 

swish 
Of silks and velvets, and the play of pearls 
And merry eyes with light; the scent of 

cloves 
And jonquils, — all, so framed within 
The blackened oak and carving of the hall, 
Looked so familiar that It scarcely seemed 
A fortnight since he first beheld the scene. 
27 



DON FOLQUET 

And she — Alazals — with her bright-eyed 

maids 
Around her, with exquisite courtliness 

made sign 
For room for him; the dwarf and minstrel 

youth 
Withdrew, setting a cushion by her side. 
He gazed and saw her fairer than of old; 
The polished roll of hair melting in curls 
Around her ears and down her slender 

neck 
Where ancient pearls hung heavy in a row 
Over her robe voluminous and rare 
With velvet, furs and jewels at the belt, 
And flowing sleeves and Eastern chate- 
laine . . . 
"Faithless, Sir Poet, hast thou been in- 
deed,"— 
And as she spoke the childlike eyes of blue 
Turned on him and the gracious lips' soft 

curves 
Struck heavenly weakness through his 

every sense. — 
"Faithless, indeed, to that fair lady here 
Within our courts who in that lute of thine 
28 



DON FOLQUET 

Lived peerless 'mong the ladies of all 

lands. 
Has she been heartless, Folquet, or abused 
Thy gallant service, that thou fare'st apart 
And leav'st her here to other suitors' 

songs? 
Is this the deathless service of thy soul. 
Of which in springtimes gone thou sang'st 

so sweet 
That all the courtly universe stood still 
To listen and bow before the Prince of 

Song?" 
And he made answer: "O sweet lady, 

grace 
For him who once among the blossoms 

white 
Came to thy throne when childhood melted 

soft 
With scarcely blossoming woman in thy 

cheek; 
Years hath he sat beside thy feet and told 
The story of devotion at the shrine. 
Whose gracious patron's name his breast 

alone 
By law of ancient courtliness must keep. 
Unknown the idle dreamer came and sang 
29 



DON FOLQUET 

When all true lovers listened; for the spell 
Her beauty fostered lent itself to sound, — 
In her the magicry of song, in her 
The essence of his courtliness. 
For he was but jthe lute whereon her 

smile 
Trembled to singing and wherein her eyes 
Set prayers to throbbing aspiration soft; 
And while his hope remained, her beauty 

proud 
Was life for him, was song for him, and 

fame. 
But ah, sweet lady, and you, fair maiden 

throng, 
Within the garden by the donjon keep 
At twilight hour have ye not marked the 

moths 
With heavy wing seek wearily their mates; 
And some against the brazier screen will 

dash. 
And some within the taper singe their 

wings. 
Consumed for their desire within the 

flame. 
But others on their clumsy wings turn up 

30 



DON FOLQUET 

To reach the star that trembles to their 

heart. 
Nightly they rise, but only to despair 
Of her unchanging beauty, till the night 
Conceals their piteous questing and the 

winds 
Of autumn chill their hearts with failure; 

so, 
Sweet ladies, is it with your Prince of 

Song; 
For lighter wings salute the star tonight, 
And she is fair and radiant for all. 
Though she may pity, still she must re- 
main 
The star, and fate hath made us as the 

moth. 
Only remembrance of her now is song, 
Song almost turned to prayer — the moth 

no more 
Sees her in love, but in divinity." — 
The elders gazed upon him half in awe; 
The churchmen seemed submerged in 

thought; alone 
The Abbot smiled serenely still; and she 
Held forth her regal hand that he might 

kiss, 

31 



DON FOLQUET 

Saying, — "O Folquet, had the star a voice 
Think'st thou it might not rival the poor 

moth 
That puts its deathless song to melody 
And dies immortal, leaving her to hold 
Her soul imprisoned in its adamant?" — 
And as he bent before her the light notes 
Of a tornada seemed to rouse the group; 
The maiden glances met as if in joy; 
The lordlings half uneasy and attent 
Stirred in their place to herald in a dance. 
"A dance!" — the jester cried and caught 

the maid 
Who just had set the Countess' curls 

aright, 
And swung her in her billowy skirts until 
Both like a top careered. "A dance!" — 

outcried 
Count Barral, — "it will stir your pulses, 

so 
The wine shall taste the sweeter ! To the 

dance !" 
The lutes and harps struck up; the Coun- 
tess rose 
Holding her hand to Folquet as she 

smiled, — 

3« 



DON FOLQUET 

"Your hand, Sir Gallant, we shall lead the 

throng 
As in the merry days by smooth Argens." 
The youth and maids stood ready in a 

line; 
The Abbot whispered at Count Barral's 

ear; 
Each damsel set her velvets at their best; 
The squires slapped their shapely boots, 

and threw 
The heavy mantles from their shoulders 

back. 
Then Folquet and the Countess slow began 
The stately dance; a touch of marvelling 
Fell on the court; the matchless grace of 

both, 
Their management of draperies, the turn 
Of shapely head and shoulder, and the 

ease 
And spirit of their mien! Never before. 
Even in her earliest bloom, had been her 

grace 
So noble and serene; the pride of race 
And state combined with simple gentleness 
Until even rugged Count Barral cried 

out, — 

33 



DON FOLQUET 

"Countess, you never danced like this be- 
fore!" 
And Folquet, all his native grace and ease 
Chastened by proud simplicity, his form 
At the full splendor of its flower; the poise 
Of Jove-like head, the eye ecstatical, 
And the light touch of some fatality, 
Graced him, as at some rite the ancient 

priests 
With David moved in dance before the 

Ark. 
But in his heart the folly of it all 
Clutched at his breath almost to force the 

scorn 
Upon his lips, but for high courtliness ; 
And thought like fire seared athwart his 

breast, — 
"They keep their poets but to dance, like 

bears 
The travelling fairsmen lead about In 

chains!" 
And as he swung in grand obeisance 'round 
To smile upon the Countess — "This our 

gift 
Divine to patter time upon the floor 
34 



DON FOLQUET 

With indolent women, oh! the shame of 

it!— 
To glad these boors and lackbrains, while 

beyond 
They say the stars are calling us! And 

when 
We would proclaim their message to the 

heart 
They steal from us to those who will keep 

up 
The ceaseless rigadoons, dragging us 

thereto 
In chains of love with them, our feeble 

hearts 
Have woven, slaves of earth and misery; 
While underneath God shows our chosen 

souls 
The fire that yawns for earthlings, the 

dead fate 
Of sinners for whose thoughtless souls in 

vain 
He has outpoured His blood ! And what 

reward 
Have I for all this trifling with my soul? — 
A love turned worthless as the hair turns 

gray; 

35 



DON FOLQUET 

A love that yet enthralls me to the dust, 
While at my heart a voice keeps thunder- 
ing, 
'Eternity! Eternity!' — Like some 
Poor climber who amid the branches light 
Dares not go on, and dreads even to re- 
turn, 
I stand upon the very brink of Hell; 
Yet fearful of an idle sneer, decline 
To draw me back from out my perilous 

strait." — 
Then as he knelt to kiss his partner's hand 
At finish of the dance, he thought within, 
Though outward smiling: — "God, the 

mockery 
Of all this stupid rout, while at our feet 
The flames seem crackling! O unfaithful 

heart 
Of mine, who will be faithful, shouldst 

thou fail? 
I sing but as a debt to folly, and love 
Itself grows weary unto me — yes, weary 
With beauty of fair forms, of smiles, of 

joys. 
Of nature's seasons grown monotonous I 

36 



DON FOLQUET 

And oh, my soul, thinkst thou that to the 

fruit 
Of Paradise thy steps shall come, thus 

stayed? 
To what strong hand of evil hast thou 

given 
The keys of thy poor life? And see, the 

world 
Smirks 'round and calls thee 'Prince of 

Song,' until 
The very sound breeds madness, — think, 

If It 
Be terror but to think of life upon 
This bed of earthly surfeit, — think — oh, 

think, 
Eternity upon a bed of flames!" 
The sweat stood on his brow; the grim 

thought seemed 
To wring his very vitals, and he rose 
Weak and all-desolate, the clang of lutes 
Wild in his ears — as all the gallants turned 
To take their places for another dance 
With careless laughter and new-fangled 

moves. 
A moment more he paused beside the deep 
Embrasured casement till Alazais, 

37 



DON FOLQUET 

Oblivious of all, but of her curls, 

Her train and trinkets and the boyish 

smile 
Of light Sir Miraval, her newest sprout 
Of courtliness and song, moved out to 

dance. 
The silver spiral of Argens called forth 
Across the moonlit scrolling of the hills. 
Unmarked he hastened forth, and passed 

along 
The gloomy passages into the court. 
There by a yellow lamp that seemed to 

smirk 
In envy at the moon his esquires sat 
With other menials at a rough repast. 
Then while they brought the horses forth 

from out 
The shadows of the mews, he heard be- 
hind 
The Abbot's voice approaching, and he 

sprang 
Into his saddle, as the churchman came 
Out at the door, and called, — "Tarry a 

while. 
My son, until my steed be ready, then 
38 



DON FOLQUET 

Shall we ride forth together." So, they 

passed 
Through the white outskirts of the sleep- 
ing town, 
By snowy bridges, where the flecks of 

bloom 
Rippled before them like a foam-tipped 

surge ; 
They heard the bells of Torondet afar 
Tolling sonorous peace unto the stars. 
The city lights were lost behind the hills 
As the swift steeds sped on along the road 
Beside Argens where now and then a frog 
Croaked at the marge, — a gleaming trout 

sprang up 
And vanished almost like a falling star. 
In silence Folquet and the Abbot rode 
Ahead; the squires and novices kept up 
Their youthful chatter far behind; at times 
Around the hills the mounted monks' 

white hoods 
And habits and the glittering of the steel 
And trappings of the squires would lend a 

touch 
Of spectral to the band; and when at 

length 

39 



DON FOLQUET 

Between the heavy trees the pathway led 
Apart to Folquet's dwelling, the old monk 
Laying his hand upon the poet's arm 
Whispered : — ^'There is no slumber there, 

my son; 
At Torondet thy cell stands ready, come ; 
Tonight the heavens are calling thee; look 

up, 
Thy destiny hath made thee for the 

stars!" — 
And Folquet melting almost Into tears 
Raised the old Abbot's ring and kissing It 
Said, — "Father, thou sayst aright; yea, I 

would gain 
My soul's reprieve; lead me to Toron- 
det." 



II 

Ten times the orchard slops of Torondet 
Had borne their fruitage, and ten. times 

the spring 
Passed with Its blossoms over hedge and 

vine; 
The bells by day and night communed on 

high 

40 



DON FOLQUET 

With holy calms; and from the cloister 

church 
Incense and prayer and sacrifice arisen. 
But not in those grim towers had passed 

the days 
As in the fretted shrines of Italy 
Or In the glittering sanctuaries of France, 
Where monk and prelate swept in ritual 

train ; 
But like a fortress set against the world 
The walls of Torondet amid the hills 
Spoke out defiance. There had Folquet 

dwelt 
Until his cowl itself had come to seem 
A very part of being, and the paths 
And arches of the cloister took the scope 
Of all the world. There in his daily tasks 
Of prayer and office, feast, and fast, and 

work 
In his still corner of the Scriptory 
He one by one rubbed out the stains of 

life, 
Its frail affections, Its distractions vain. 
Till, if by chance a minstrel down the road 
Touched at his lute, he hardly heard or 

raised 

41 



DON FOLQUET 

His head from off his frame of vellum 

skin, — 
So had his century been lost to him. 
But not at first his cloister was secure; 
A word dropped lightly in the pilgrim's 

hall, 
An ancient name repeated on the scrolls, 
Set all his heart ablaze, and some from far 
Would gaze on him who had been "Prince 

of Song," 
Whereat he drew the hood upon his face. 
At times across the sunlit hills would float 
The hunting horn ; or in the spring a band 
Of dames and courtiers wandered down 

the road. 
And something clutched like a tiger at his 

throat. 
Until he fled and cast himself in fear 
Before the sombre shrine — and they were 

gone. 
The nights to him grew terrible; his cell 
Echoed the trumpets of a hundred kings; 
Tourneys and battles swept across his 

dreams. 
And in the throng came women he had 

loved, 

42 



DON FOLQUET 

From Genoa, Marseilles and Syria. 
Among them one there was with empress' 

crown, 
And one, whose lovely arms were bruised 

with chains, 
Used the sweet voice of old: — "O Fol- 

quet, thou 
That slumberest in a distant cell hast 

shared 
With me the joys for which my lord, Bar- 

ral. 
Dooms me today within my buried pit. 
Alazais am I — hast thou forgotten? 
See, where thy kisses were, now dungeon 

rats 
Have bitten ! Would I had fled with thee 
While there was time 1 Would that thy 

lips were mine 
Here in this dungeon, so the pit of hell 
Might take us both in that embrace 1 Alas, ., 
Think not that thou canst steal to heaven 

alone ; 
God is no earthly prince that thou canst 

cheat; 
Throw off that cowl, thy courtier robe was 

best; 

43 



DON FOLQUET 

Thou canst not pander to a God so just!" 
And at the matin bell the brothers saw 
How like a corpse he sat within his stall, 
Nor took that day his humble crust of 

bread, 
Nor silence broke within the times 

allowed. 
Then when they sang the Noel midnight 

mass 
Before the peasants gathered from the 

hills, 
His voice was hardly heard; but when the 

chant 
Rose o'er some brother's corpse, at Tene- 

brae, 
They heard his Miserere like a knell 
Trembling among the arches to a sob. 
The younger brothers paled when he in- 
toned, 
''Jerusalem, Jerusalem, return 
Unto the Lord thy God!" — so terrible 
His accent! — So it passed that he was held 
A saint uncannonized, and prelates came 
To crave his prayers and wisdom, — till 

one day 
A Templar, resting in the hall, announced 
44 



DON FOLQUET 

The tidings from Marseilles, that Bar- 

ral's wife, 
Alazais, had died. And Folquet heard, 
Nor spoke nor gave a sign, but sat before 
His vellum all the day like some carved 

piece 
Of stone, until the master saw his state 
And had him carried, senseless, to his cell. 
And on the vellum they beheld this song — 
Upon the margin, last of all he wrote : — 

"How the weary years are sped. 
That they tell me scornfully 

Alazais the fair is dead, 

And wait my tears to see ! — 

"But no more mine eyes reply 

Than when came the dreary word. 

One had seen King Richard die, 
One Toulouse's knightly lord. 

"They say the King of Aragon 
The great Alfonso is at rest — 

And now they heap the clay upon 
Alazais — God ease her breast!" — 

45 



DON FOLQUET 

Thenceforth at his approach the laughter 

died 
Among the playful groups of novices; 
The older fathers in their lighter moods 
Avoided him; and as the days wore on 
He grew to be a figure strange, remote, 
Robed with an undefined authority. 
Thus when the aged Abbot died, the 

monks 
Proclaimed him mitred Lord of Torondet. 
For evil days had come upon Provence, 
And strenuous hands were needed at the 

helm 
To guide the holy ship of Christ amid 
The waves that rose against it. Christen- 
dom 
Was whispering with scandals grave and 

dread. 
That at Toulouse the spectre of the Fiend 
Had raised again his Manichean horns. 
Within the town the brothers had been 

met 
With jeers and insults, churches been pro- 
faned 
And tabernacles rifled. There were tales 
46 



DON FOLQUET 

Of fearful rites among the hills by night; 

The woods were red with fires; by the 
road 

Strange voices came and went, and some- 
times shrieked 

Their blasphemies against the gateside 
rood. 

By the red trails from Rome the haughty 
train 

Of legates came and went in flaming haste ; 

And messengers rushed daily from Toul- 
ouse 

Bearing Count Raimon's parleys with the 
Pope. 

Until one night upon the abbey gate 

Thundered the knocker and the porter 
came 

To rouse him in his cell, with messages 

For Abbot Folquet sent by Innocent, 

Sealed with the signet of the Fisherman. 

And Folquet rose and read the ordi- 
nance, — 

That he set forth at once unto Toulouse, 

Drag down the traitor Bishop from his 
chair, 

47 



DON FOLQUET 

On his own finger slip the amethyst, 
And hold the town in fee for Mother 

Church. 
Then the first joy that he had known for 

years 
Seized on his heart, and in a fevered haste 
He summoned forth the Abbot's coach of 

state, 
Bade the roused brothers to attend his 

will, 
And without scrip or luggage rode away 
Before the morn could break. But as he 

went 
He heard the matin bells ring out afar 
Behind him in the tower of Torondet; 
And in his memory wakened that strange 

night 
When first their peace and sweetness 

wooed his soul. 
For now it seemed that after all these 

years 
'Twas fated he should know their calm no 

more. 
He saw the sun arising on the hills 
And bowed his head in mystical commune 
48 



DON FOLQUET 

With his far brothers offering now their 

mass 
In unison for him and his emprise. 

Full bitter the emprise : Toulouse, the fair 
Rose-garden city of the South, was now 
A thicket full of thorns for all its blooms. 
He who sat down beneath its mitre's 

weight 
Bore a great load of sorrows and chagrins; 
For here the ancient East had spread its 

nets, 
And rebels and heresiarchs had crouched 
Beneath the favor of successive lords 
Whose minds were sole intent to profit 

hard 
And sow their fertile fields of France with 

seeds 
Of pleasure light and carnal indolence. 
Like thunder from a summer cloud, the 

voice 
Of Rome had rumbled o'er the land, to 

warn 
Of storms to come; the vineyard laughter 

brought 

49 



DON FOLQUET 

The answer of Provence ; the gathering 

gloom 
Of hurricanes grew darker, yet the sound 
Of lutes, like the cicadas, never ceased. 
The Legates came and went; — "Make 

straight His paths!" — 
They cried — "We are the cherubim that 

wield 
The flaming sword to guard the tree of 

life! 
Behold, He salth, 'I will My vengeance 

wreak 
Upon my enemies and will reward 
All them that hate Me!' — Lo, we sound 

for you 
The trumpets of the Lord ! — 'Let all flesh 

know 
That I the Lord have drawn my sword 

from forth 
Its sheath; nor shall return It more!' — 
Divide not ye His seamless robe!" — 

Vainly 
Count Ralmon countered and excused In 

vain. 
"Cast forth your Cathari's accursed 

spawn; 

50 



DON FOLQUET 

You nurse a cancer-spot within our breast; 
We are the Law and Prophets; we must 

keep 
Eternal covenant with the Christian 

world!"— 
But he replied: "They are good men and 

free; 
I cannot force their souls ; your churchmen 

laws 
Are not for all. And I am sovereign 

here!"— 
So the French King Augustus, knowing 

well 
His feeble powers over proud Toulouse, 
Held back, the while a harvest crop of 

crimes 
Grew daily greater till that fatal day 
The dirk from out Count Raimon's court 

cut down 
The Papal Legate Peter; then the steeds 
Of Montfort whinnied on the blast for 

blood 
And vengeance. Folquet on his purple 

throne 
Sat like a spider 'mid a tangled net, 
51 



DON FOLQUET 

Not all his weaving but the hellish woof 
Of doom impending. — 

The Crusaders paused: — 
"Shall we leave here a nest of Infamies 
That blacken all our Christendom, to fare 
Abroad for Paynlms? — Here a band that 

scorns 
Our Church, our Christ, our sacraments 

and laws? — 
A brood unnatural that threats our state 
With dissolution, that no contract-oath 
Or true confession can control, nor priest 
Can serve, nor sacrifice command? — Their 

death I 
Their death 1 or penance ! For we are 

the law 
On earth as it is in heaven I" — 

Fury spread 
Its blast-wide wings, the warring hordes 

swept on 
Through burning cities, fallen walls, and 

towers. 
And blackened regions red with streams 

of blood, 
While Carcassonne and ravaged Bezlers 

shone 

52 



DON FOLQUET 

Like two red wounds upon the brows of 

Time. 
Then Folquet riding closed within his 

coach 
Sought his grim, hostile city of Toulouse, 
His nose grown thin and sharp, his eyes 

on fire, 
His jaws set hard to serve his priestly 

task. 
His hands gripped firmly on the crozier 

staff. 
Beside him Brother Dominic, clad in 

white. 
Had heard the mocking lutes within the 

court 
Strike off his ancient lay, "The Blossom 

Time 
Of Spring." And Folquet sighed: "Shall 

nevermore 
My ears be free of that poor feeble song? 
We have stripped off the splendor of our 

state, 
Put by our robes and trains and 'out- 
riders. 
And driven forth all that would a scandal 

give 

S3 



DON FOLOUET 

To our opponents here or make their poor 
False argument for wrong. Still, still that 

song 
Is flung at me whene'er I venture forth — 
A pitiless rejoinder from the flesh 
When I would urge the spirit's higher call. 
From out Count Raimon's window leaned 

a form, 
A woman such as men call beautiful, 
Who cast upon me flowers and smiling 

cried, — 
*For thee, thou "Prince of Song" !' And 

I grew weak 
As through my heart the thorn went 

straight to pierce 
My very life. But come, no more of 

this, — 
This day I come my deacons to ordain; 
But first have asked Count Raimon, thrice 

accursed 
By Mother Church, to leave the town 

awhile. 
So I may act in my episcopal rite. 
This can he scarce refuse. I now await 
His answer." Soon within the Bishop's 

hall 

54 



DON FOLQUET 

There came with escort a young trouba- 
dour; 
His locks all curling gold, his lute strung 

high 
Against his thigh; he read in lisping tones 
•Count Raimon's answer — "Bishop, you 

who were 
In olden time our Prince of Song, and now 
By voice of Rome empowered would wage 

a war 
For Rome, although a stranger seated in 
Our citadel, — know that Count Raimon 

here 
Is sovereign Lord, — nor thinks he to fare 

forth 
To hunt without the city, nor to feast 
Within the woods; for there's a flock 

abroad 
Of wolves too ravenous and hunger-led; 
Nor is there tourney, nor a court of love 
Now that the Prince of Song would scorn 

the lute. 
Therefore Count Raimon bids Don Fol- 

quet rise 
Betimes tomorrow, and go forth himself 
With all his traitorous White Company, 
5S 



DON FOLQUET 

And leave Toulouse and its true citizens 
Free of their presence , Let him join out- 
side 
With Montfort's legions waiting at La- 

vaur. 
There shall he be at home and find his will 
Accomplished as he wishes. At the break 
Of day our gates shall open. Issue forth 
If you do value life!" — 

And Folquet rose 
From out his seat and answered, — "Mes- 
senger, 
Go back to Count Raimon and say that I, 
Once Prince of Song, am now his Bishop 

here. 
It was not he who made me Bishop, nor 
Have I come hither on account of him. 
I came not as intruder, nor by force 
Of any earthly prince, nor will I go 
Because he orders. Let him do his worst! 
Ready am I to know his knife, that I 
May gain my glory through the chalice 

blood 
Of my deliverance I I am all alone, — 
Unarmed, — so let him come. For I am 
called 

S6 



DON FOLQUET 

The Bishop of the Devils — be it so — 
For here are devils, and I am their 

Lord!"— 
But Raimon stirred not forth against him 

now, 
Though for a month he waited. Then at 

last 
Came Brother Dominic unto him and said: 
'"Tis time to go; the city's doom is sealed; 
Let us prepare, and lead our Christians 

forth I"— 
All through the night the rumor ran apace 
From church to convent and to church 

again : 
"Prepare to leave Toulouse; the Lord 

hath given 
His word; let us go forth In peace and 

right!"— 
And through the streets and squares as 

morning broke 
The banners of the faith spread on the 

breeze 
And a great throng of folk, layman and 

clerk. 
Marched amid hymning toward the outer 

gate. 

57 



DON FOLQUET 

And every priest and monk went up their 

shrines, 
Opened the tabernacle door and took the 

Host 
And chalice on their breast and quenched 

the light 
Before the altars — and toward the gate 
Went forth in solemn ritual pomp. And 

last 
Came Folquet In his mitre crowned, his 

cope 
All gold around him, pressed against his 

breast 
The Sacrament and monstrance from the 

shrine 
Of the cathedral. 

In his train there swarmed 
His priests and monks and Dominic's 

throngs in white. 
With women and their children, and the 

old; 
While o'er his head his deacons newly 

made 
Upheld the silken canopy that marked 
The holiest point in the cortege. .... 

And when 

58 



i 



DON FOLQUET 

He reached the castle gates he paused and 

raised 
His monstrance as a sign of warning 

there, — 
When slowly on their hinges the great 

doors 
Swung open, and within the courtyard wide 
Knelt all Count Raimon's household on 

the stones; 
And at their head the Count himself, amid 
The womenfolk that made the scandals 

wing 
Adown the whispering echoes of the world. 
Don Folquet's cheek grew pale before the 

sight. 
He placed the monstrance within Domin- 
ic's hands, 
And strode across the gateway. — "Count 

Raimon, 
And you, his servitors, what mockery 
Of reverence is here? Have I not warned 
In words of Holy Rome, that on your 

heads 
The interdict would fall? — the while you 

laughed 

59 



DON FOLQUET 

And mocked the distant thunders of the 

Pope? 
And you, Sire Count, have sent me mes- 
sages, 
Commanding me to go, but I, unarmed 
Save by the Holy Ghost's supernal powers, 
Have scorned your warrant and authority. 
For there is none, save him in Rome, to 

give 
Command to Bishop Folquet By the right 
Of God's appointed, have I come and 

stayed, 
And still do hold the spiritual fief 
Upon Toulouse I" — Count Raimon then 

arose, 
"Bishop," he said, "we know no compeer 

here; 
The sovereign county of Toulouse belongs 
To us by right of our inheritance; 
We have allowed the power of Rome to 

place 
Upon our Bishop's throne an enemy, 
No friend unto our customs of Toulouse, 
An enemy within our citadel 
To scheme for our undoing. Have we 

not 

60 



DON FOLQUET 

At various times sought at the Roman 
throne 

For reconcilement, and done penance for 

Our sins of flesh, and granted to the 
church 

Her rights and privileges in our 
realms?" — 

"Yes," cried Don Folquet,— "With your 
left hand out 

To her, the while your right caressed your 
sins, 

Fostered the Cathari's abhorred bands; 

Let loose their leprosy upon the world, 

The while you turned upon your couch 
of lust 

And feast and song. While we, the min- 
isters 

Of God's appointment, waged a losing 
war, 

You fed the crumbs of favor to the beasts 

Who would destroy our Church and Chris- 
tendom ! 

Today, in joy, by our own will not yours. 

We go to join our brothers of the Cross. 

Your power is not for us; Rome has cut 
off 

6i 



DON FOLQUET 

The stream of our obedience to your laws, 
And you are outcast from her font of 

grace, — 
You, and all these who serve you, are 

condemned 
By interdict. There is your final doom I" — 
"Nay, Bishop, we are Christians here, I 

swear 
Again; go forth, if so you will, but leave 
Some monk or priest with power to ab- 
solve 
And consecrate the Host, for we are 

placed 
In battle-line to meet Don Simon's troops, 
And fierce and terrible the fight must be, 
And some shall fall beneath the deadly 

press. 
And the priest's holiest office is to say 
Last absolution" — "Will you then sub- 
mit," 
Demanded Folquet, "to the Legate's 

powers ; 
Surrendering Toulouse and all your rights 
Into the hands of Rome?" "You ask too 
great 

62 



DON FOLQUET 

A price," Count Raimon said, "we are to- 
day 
But suppliants at the priestly doors for 

grace 
Of spirit, not for temporal ordinance. 
We have our foes political but choose 
One God, one Cross, and one communion. 
The temporal Rome against us wages war. 
And we resist, but not the spiritual! — 
Join ye our enemies, your friends outside. 
But shut us not beyond the Christian fold! 
Though warring, we are brothers in the 

blood 
Of Christ!"— "Nay, Count," the Bishop 

answered him, 
"Divide not God's appointment to His 

Church 
With your own usurpation of a power 
Which you have forfeited! To Csesar, 

give 
All that belongs to Csesar, — nothing 

more! 
You have usurped the right of Mother 

Church 
To judge of things of dogma, rite, 
And discipline. Your easy tolerance 

63 



DON FOLQUET 

Of vice and error have become your boast 
Instead of shame. Some natural grace, 

some vice, 
Some looseness in the life and creed of 

these 
Your Catharists has led your sense astray; 
But we, the God-appointed judges of the 

Church, 
The guardians of His never-ceasing grace, 
The wielders of His sole authority, 
We do behold and judge them to the 

sword — 
Not pitiless, for we have urged and prayed 
For their conversion — but in vain! And 

now 
Their doom has fallen — and your doom. 
Lapped in your vices, with your mind on 

earth 
And not upon eternal guidance placed — 
Your doom, as well, O Count Raimon, is 

here! 
So without blessing do I go my way; 
And God goes with me ! See, your churches 

bare, 
Your tapers quenched, your blessed stoups 

gone dry! 

64 



DON FOLQUET 

The child shall cry In vain to know the 
font; 

The penitent turn vainly for the priest; 

The dying find no blessing at the end! 

Give me the monstrance of my God" — He 
took 

The golden disc upon his breast again: — 

"And now, my brothers, let us on our 
way! — 

Then silent walked he to the outer gate. 

Where, lifting high the Host, he cried 
afar, — 

"Jerusalem! Jerusalem! oh, why 

Hast thou forsaken Me! Behold, Toul- 
ouse, 

Thy doom is come upon thee ! Like the 
dust 

Before the wind the Angel of the Lord 

Shall scatter thee 1 Remember Carcas- 
sonne ! 

Remember dread Beziers! Thy doom is 
come !" — 

Then he was gone, the city streets grew 
still 

And half deserted. Men looked fearful- 
eyed 

65 , 



DON FOLQUET 

At one another. On the hills the crash 
Of far-off thunder trembled to their souls; 
Great drops of rain — not blood as yet — 
Splashed on the pavements. Wide the 

churches gaped 
With doors unbarred and tabernacles 

bare 
Of all their sacred store. One voice alone, 
A sweet and tragic voice, came floating 

forth 
Across the castle walls, like some calm 

bird 
Amid the troubled branches ere the storm, 
Singing unmoved "The Blossom Time of 

Spring." 



66 



ARIFA "THE TREE OF LIGHT" 
From "Alhamhra Songs" 

Still I remember the dread morn they 

came 
Across the mountains; how the sudden 

flame 
Leaped from the castle windows, and the 

cry 
Of fear and rapine echoed on the sky; 
While I, poor outcast, called Maruja 

then. 
Watching the village goats, saw from the 

glen 
Our hill-folk slain at every hovel door, 
And ravening horsemen smeared with 

foam and gore 
Sacking the shrine. They snatched me up 

and fled 
Across the passes. All that night the red 
Of signal fires shone on the peaks, the 

sound 

67 



ARIFA "THE TREE OF LII^HT" 

Of warning bells rose from the vales 

around. 
Swift were their barbs, for at the dawning 

light 
I saw Granada's plain, and ere the night 
Its market-place, wherein they led me out 
And sold me weeping 'mid the din and 

shout. 
'Twas a good price, wise Edriz, that you 

paid 
For me a wild thing from the mountain 

glade ! 
When you had seen me bathed and per- 
fumed sweet — 
My hair all unguents, robed unto my feet 
In Persian silks and pearls in strings that 

glowed 
Like rainbow fetters — then along the road 
At morn you led me on a palfrey white 
Across the city squares and up Alhambra's 

height. 
Yea, beautiful was Yussuf on that day 
He welcomed me! They bade me bend 

and say 
"Salaam," and then he took me by the 

hand. 

68 



ARIFA "THE TREE OF LIGHT" 

All cloth of gold his raiment was, a band 

Of diamonds on his forehead, when he 
spoke 

And named me first "Arifa" there awoke 

The woman in my breast; the flush of 
shame 

And rapture coursing swiftly through my 
frame 

Was sign I loved him. — But 'twas ever so 

With each new plaything from the mart 
below; 

For there was none like him to touch the 
lute 

And stringed kanun; the nightingales were 
mute 

In ecstasy to hear his voice; his smile 

Was as the springtime through some pearl- 
strewn isle. 

And oft at twilight, spell-bound 'neath his 
glance, 

We heard him read ghazdl or fond ro- 
mance 

Of his own fashioning, — some precious 
phrase 

From Hafiz or Ibn-Zemric or the lays 
69 



ARIFA "THE TREE OF LTGHT" 

Of old Firdausi's Book of Kings, en- 
scrolled 
On vellums stained in scarlet and in gold. 
That I outshone them — I, Arifa, tree 
On which his daylight blossomed — that 

for me 
All yielded place upon his bosom there — 
Zora the Malagan, Zoraida rare, 
Maisuna and Borina, beauties vain 
From Kairouan, Algeria and Spain — 
Served but to whet my restless heart with 

pride 
Of conquest. Soon they taught my hands 

to glide 
O'er ivory-fret tanburs, my feet to glide 
In tinkling anklets, craftily to trace 
My lids with stibials, my finger tips 
To stain with henna ; framed my northern 

lips 
To murmur prayers to Allah, songs and 

praise 
To Yussuf in their jewelled Arab 

phrase, — 
Yet spite his treasures, spite Alhisn's re- 
treats, 

70 



ARIFA "THE TREE OF LIGHT" 

Its fountains, lutes, and perfumes, gems 

and sweets — 
Spite of them all, had I not solace found 
In Yussuf's love, no blandishment or 

bound 
Had kept me long from plunging from the 

height 
Upon the roofs below. Even so at night 
When on the terrace I could steal alone 
And leave the ceaseless revel, weary 

grown 
Of Eastern tales from out Scheherazade, 
Of tittering dwarfs, of chess of gold and 

jade — 
Up from the depths of some Granada 

street 
Would rise at times a serenade blown 

sweet 
And wild, — such times came thoughts, 

swift thoughts like blows 
Against my forehead. Had the heaven 

that gave 
No father to me, meant me for a slave 
Though born of mountain blood? Then 

when I heard 
In spring or autumn the returning bird — 

71 



ARIFA "THE TREE OF LIGHT" 

The flocking swallows from Morocco's 

shore, 
Twitter and call outside the Tower once 

more, — 
It seemed the glamor died from Yussuf's 

eyes; 
I shrank from his fond arms with smoth- 
ered cries 
Among the silken pillows. — Thus the 

years 
Wore on; then came — one midnight — on 

our ears 
The rush of Askari across the Court 
Of Cisterns; at the gateway loud report 
And voices clamoring "Open." Peering 

out 
We saw 'twas Abu-Sai'd with his rout 
Of guards and torchmen. Silent terror fell 
On our Alhisn, Again the citadel 
Rang with the summons "Open!" From 

on high 
Yussuf behind the lattice made reply: — 
"Vizier of mighty Ismail, the hour 
Is late that brings thee to our fortress 

tower; 

72 



ARIFA "THE TREE OF EIGHT" 

Speak, is there message from Granada's 

King, 
Whose name be ever blessed, thou dost 

bring?" 
Then Abu-Said answered — "Message none 
From Ismail bring I tonight, O Son 
Of Mightiness, — but tidings thou must 

know; 
Death's Angel Azrael hath stricken low 
Thy brother Ismail; thou now art Lord 
Of Sceptre, Key and Diadem and Sword." 
But Yussuf cried: — "Nay, 'tis some bale- 
ful dream 
Hath witched thee, O Vizier, that thou 

shouldst deem 
Great Ismail dead ; no portent of the night, 
No comet blazes, such as marks the flight 
From earth of souls like hisl" — "Nay, in 

the gloom 
Great Azrael marked thy brother for the 

tomb. 
Throw wide Alhisn's resounding fortress 

gates; 
Come thou and rule Alhambra !" — "Lo, 

what fates, 

73 



ARIFA "THE TREE OF LIGHT" 

What tempests ask you that the poor 

caged wing 
Shall brave? 'Tis for the eagle to be king 
Of the Sierras! Mine the lizard's state 
Warmed in the sunshine at my brother's 

gate."— 
But as they spoke across the Courtyard 

wide, 
Approached the royal litter; stretched in- 
side 
Beneath the torchlight the dead Ismail lay, 
A king in death! Still Yussuf in dismay 
Lest Abu-Said with some fatal snare 
Contrive to seize him, draped his garment 

rare 
About my shoulders, on my forehead 

bound 
The princely turban ; then upon the ground 
Lurked hidden 'mong the slaves. With 

armed clang 
They passed our gates; the trembling 

arches rang 
Proclaiming Yussuf. Stealthily he drew 
Beside the litter, creeping till he knew 
And touched the body; cold indeed in 

death 

74 



ARIFA "THE TREE OF LIGHT" 

Lay Ismail, lifeless there without a 

breath — 
Then Yussuf rose on high and I was cast 
Beneath him with a gesture as he passed. 
'Twas dawn ere with the drums and gongs 

he went 
Beyond the Lion's Court; the battlement 
Flaming the signals to the mountain forts. 
Then closed the gates on us; Alhisn's far 

courts 
Shook with the clamor of the bolts. How 

gray, 
Alas, how drear — that lonely break of 

day! — 
But his Arifa, his sweet tree of day. 
Had all her blossoms too been swept 

away. 
That never to Alhambra's royal bower 
He summoned her? — yea, never from that 

hour 
Returned unto Alhisn ! — They brought me 

word 
He craved the parrot, a sharp-witted bird 
That spoke some quips from Sadi; once 

again 
Did he recall me, once, but only then 
75 



ARIFA "THE TREE OF LIGHT" 

To claim anew the ruby called "The Heart 
Of Andalusia." Where we lay apart 
And half-forgotten in Alhisn, there still 
Came rumors of revolts. The times were 

ill, 
The tribute heavy, ceaseless out of far 
Sevilla came King Pedro's threats of war. 
Yea, even Alhambra's hallowed walls 

could hear 
The taunts of some rash Christian cava- 
lier; 
And once at twilight, too, a serenade 
Came wafting up for his Alhambra maid. 
It set my heart a-dream with stories told 
Of fond sultanas who, in days of old. 
Braved these sheer depths at some true 

knight's appeal 
And o'er the mountain passes gained Cas- 
tile. 
But I — were it for me that gallant's song — 
Could I return as poor Maruja 'mong 
The village folk? — Arifa, I whose praise 
Granada's poets sing — whose flower of 

days 
Is still at bloom? Could I return and 
know 

76 



ARIFA "THE TREE OF LIGHT" 

The people of my race, and veil-less go 
Throughout their cities, learn to make the 

Cross, 
And count the Ave bells? If so, what loss 
To Yussuf ? — he whose feasts were spread 

around 
The Court of Myrtles, he with beard en- 
wound 
With jewels, tossing coins in yellow play 
Into the pools of goldfish all the day! — 
Then ay de mi! that morn when at the 

doors 
They flung him back amid their jeers and 

roars 
Of Abu-Sai'd's guards ! — his futile reign 
Annulled, his tinsel sceptre snapped in 

twain 
At that dread upstart's whim! Alhisn 

anew 
Lit up its lamps ; the arrafias blew 
Their mellow pastorals; santal and musk 
Breathed from the perfume urns. Yea, 

now the husk 
Of Yussuf's days was ours, his painted 

smile 

77 



ARIFA "THE TREE OF LIGHT" 

And gruesome touch — life seemed a task 

too vile! — 
Yet with myself I still kept faith. That 

thing 
Misshapen, imbecile, the slaves did fling 
To us was Yussuf, victim of a fate 
Inflexible as ours! That I should hate 
As once I loved, what woman is there 

born 
Would blame me to revenge my months 

of scorn? 
And yet all loathsome derelict he was, 
Had he not been my prince of love, the 

cause 
Of all my rapture, all my bitterness? 
Though he had wronged me, it was mine 

to bless; 
And I would save him when again they 

broke 
Into Alhisn. — I wrapped me in his cloak 
Again to screen him; — but he thrust me 

by. 
And cried exulting — ^'Askari, 'tis I, 
Your monarch Yussuf ! Lo, once more ye 

come 

78 



ARIFA "T^E TREE OF LIGHT" 

To throne me o'er Granada!" — Stricken 

dumb 
They paused an instant — then the scimitar 
Clove him in twain ! — Thus rose the drip- 
ping star 
Of Abu-Said ! — Nay, he gives no thought 
To us, with ice they say his veins are 

fraught ; 
To rule is his sole madness; but 'tis said 
King Pedro's name eats up his heart with 

dread. 
And as for me — what monarch comes or 

goes, — 
My life must be the same within this close 
Of domes and gardens. Still the poets sing 
Arifa's fate — of her whose broken wing 
Hath doomed her to a cage; yea, still at 

eve 
Across the ramparts come wild songs that 

leave 
My heart a-thirsting for the mountain 

streams, 
And then I smile — and sometimes weep — 

o'er dreams. 



79 



MURILLO PAINTS "THE ASSUMP- 
TION" 

Scene in Seville in the year i66^, the 
house of Don Bartolome Murillo on the 
Plaza de Alfaro; in the sunshiny, white 
patio, with bright flowers in pots, birds in 
wicker cages, and a tall palm-tree visible 
over the rooftop. 

Murillo, about forty-eight years old, is 
standing at work before his easel. His 
model, Rufina, about eighteen years old, is 
posed on a raised platform, her robe of 
light blue and her hands crossed on her 
breast. At a rear corner of the patio sits 
Dona Juanela, an old woman in a black 
dress and plain veil, her hands busy with 
her large red rosary-beads. Strumming of 
a guitar is heard from the street outside 
and then singing in the African-Gipsy 
manner, the voice of Anton : 
80 



"THE ASSUMPTION" 

You must never leave the songbird 
Nor the woman quite alone; 

The bird, because the cat is wary; 
The woman, for the lover^s tone. 

MURILLO 

You hear, Juanela, what the singer 

chants ? 
What are your ceaseless prayers compared 

with his? 
This endless singing of our streets and 

squares 
Will drive me mad! — 
Juanela 

It is the world 
And spring, Don Bartolome. They will 

chirp 
Until the nests are ready — or the grave! 
We old souls have sung, and now must 

hear 
The others' songs — with patience of the 

skies. 

MURILLO 

I would I knew some quarter of our land 
Where I might 'scape the sound! They 
call it Love ! — 
Si 



MURILLO PAINTS 

Love ! — ^that whole day long, and every 

day 
It sounds but more monotonous. 'Twould 

seem 
The only voice our Seville knows by heart. 
They say, within the North, that cap and 

bells 
Become us Andalusians best! Indeed 
In other lands it is the saddest hearts 
That do the singing; we are sad, it seems. 
Who make our trivial songs our constant 

joys; 
Grief hides our crown of thorns 'neath cap 

and bells I — 

JUANELA 

Birds in their cages. sing in spite of bars; 
Then, too, Rufina is both young and fair, 
Don Bartolome — 

MURILLO 

Did you say Rufina — 
This singing is for her? — 

JUANELA 

'Tis Anton's voice. 

MURILLO 

This twiddle-twaddle that has plunked all 
spring 

82 



"THE ASSUMPTION" 

Outside my gate ! — Then surely you have 

failed, 
Juanela, that It should occur ! — 

JUANELA 

In faith 
Maestro, you have set me to a task 
Too great ; we fight against the spring and 
youth ! 

MURILLO 

Have I not told you that Rufina must 
Make visits to the nuns of Santa-Cruz; 
Must take communion daily, and to prayer 
Give all her leisure? 
Juanela 

Even so, Senor, 
Love will have speech as it has eyes in 

spring. 
And there are lovers here who look In 

heaven 
To find embrace and kisses — even our 

saints. 
And monks and nuns enamored of the 

skies! — 

MURILLO 

Hush, hush, Juanela ! Mock not at the 
loves 

83 



MURILLO PAINTS 

Our mystics know! But surely you must 

see 
It is important to my plan for her 
That she accord in life of perfectness 
With our Immaculate Mother's. Ten 

times now 
My brush has striven to show our Virgin 

Queen 
Of Heaven among the clouds on high 

transformed, 
Sinless and perfect in her earthly grace ! — 
No thought of earthly love must ever come 
Across my model's mind to mar the dream 
My soul would build upon her I Through 

my griefs 
And prayers my art has come into this sun 
Of joy celestial. At the Brotherhood 
Of our Don Miguel have I learnt the 

glooms 
Of penance and the tragedies of Faith; 
My shadows are the bone-black from the 

pots 
Our Andalusians burn. Besides I read 
My Pictor Christianus and the Faria 
Commensuracion and Valverde's guide. 
84 



"THE ASSUMPTION" 

You see, I do not scorn Pacheco's law; — 
"Our Lady must be painted in the flower 
Of twelve or thirteen years; with sweet, 

grave eyes, 
And nose and mouth of perfect form; and 

hair 
A flow of finest gold." — Then, too, he 

says : — 
"Clothe her in blue and white; the cycle 

moon 
Beneath her like a reaping hooli." 

Sometimes, 
Indeed, have I neglected to include 
The crown of stars and the Franciscan 

cord 
That Sister Beatrix de Silva saw 
In her great vision, — for, methinks, the 

sons 
Of the Assisian lay too grasping hands 
Upon the gates of heaven. Here then 

you have 
The Dogma and the poem of our true 
Redemption, — beautifully seen and told! 
There's none, they say, has rivalled me in 

this. 



MURILLO PAINTS 

JUANELA 

Don Bartolome's work, they say, is both 
Divine in art and in the ways of Faith. 

MURILLO 

You know, Juanela, how I've striven here 
For perfect lightness of the floating 

form, — 
For lift of draperies, — for angelic hues — 
Have I not turned these cherub forms 

around 
A thousand times to catch an airy rise 
And ecstasy? Long have I striven, and 

yet 
Until today the vision has been far 
Beyond my brush's reach ! — Then — ^then, 
This music from the street, — this talk of 

love 
For my Rufina ! — 
Juanela 

Senor, you must see 
The girl is growing up; she cannot stand 
Forever on this pedestal of yours ! 

MURILLO 

Let her have patience: I will pay her 

dower 
To join the nuns of Santa-Cruz. 
86 



"THE ASSUMPTION" 

JUANELA 

Don Bartolome, no; I find she dreams 
In spite of all your plans of other love. 

MURILLO 

So, it has come, — reality declares 
My work must finish and today. And so 
My last "Assumption" now is fully done I 
Here do I leave my gospel word, so Time 
Shall not forget the dreams our century 
Has woven in Faith! Mine, too, will be a 

note 
Of joy, such as old Urban Seventh spoke 
Admonishing, "Faith to sing, and Hope to 

dance. 
And Charity to leap with Joy!" Quick, 

there, 
Rufina, take the pose ! — I'll finish now ! — 
Smile, dream of heaven, of purity, of 

light!— 
Now, dear Fray Luis, let me sing with 

you — 
"O turn thine eyes, O Tender, 
O Loving/ — ere dost leave 
This vale whose flowery splendor 
Masks but a waste where grieve 
The outcast sons of Eve! 
87 



MURILLO PAINTS 

"And when thy gentle vision 

Hath marked their dismal plight, 

Thou, — on thy way elysiam — 
Mayst trail them in thy flight, 

Heaven's Lode-Star, to the Light!" 

(Murillo falls on his knees and is lost in 

an ecstasy before his painting.) 

JUANELx'V (to RuFINA) 

Take off the blue cloak! Hurry, little 

one, 
Anton will be impatient at the gate. 
Quick, let's be off! — Hark, there he sings 

again ! — 
Anton (Singing outside the house.) 
"Thou art like the driven snow, 

And I, the dread volcano's blast; 
Shall thy whiteness melting flow, 

Or my fire be quenched at last?" 



88 



MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 

To Mother Goose 

Ah, rare old nurse of poets, now so 
scorned 
By hasty bards and followers of isms 
Who leave thy breast for metrical 
abysms. 
And grewsome moods and passions un- 
adorned, — 
Would that these twanging lyrists might 
be warned 
Back to thy lessons from their naughty 

schisms. 
And set to con the rhythmic catechisms 
Wherein thou hid'st the wisdom earth has 
mourned I 

Would— first of women in the ranks of 
song! — 
Mother of mystic and of symbohstl^ 
Thou couldst return to these, and bring 
along 

89 



MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 

Thy pap and gruel now so sorely 

missed, — 
Thy saving humor (should it still 

exist!), 
Thy breath of youthlands, and thine elfin 

throng I 



HUMPTY DUMPTY 

Clown-monarch of the nursery, thy name 
Too long is silent on the sonnet's tongue, 
The while our bards sophisticate have 
sung 

Thy cousin Pierrot and his deeds to fame ! 

Is't air of carnival thou lackst? — a dame. 

Like Columbine, to interest the young 

With that "lovejrinterest" that is set 

among 

The chief requirements of the author's 

game? 

Kings prove, they say, their greatness In 
their fall. 
So thou, mad bumpkin from the moon, 
hast shown 

90 



MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 

Thy merriment to childish eyes alone 
That hall thy tumble as a royal flight, — 
Little barbarians, with no thought at all 
To sympathize, or keep a face polite ! 



Little Miss Moffet 

Her opera chaperon was heard to say, — 
"Miss Moffet's nerves, you know, were 

quite unstrung 
Because a spider — when she was quite 
young — 
Sat down to join her at her curds and 

whey. 
The specialists declared to our dismay 
Her life Itself upon the balance hung; 
Since even the shock, they said, of being 
stung 
Could hardly worse upon her system play." 

And as the music died away, there came 
Into the box a monster with a name 
Renowned of old — but now for debts 
known wider — 
Miss Moffett's little face looked pleased 
and vain, 

91 



MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 

We saw that they had cured her nervous 
strain, 
As Prince Tarantula sat down beside 
her. 



The Sprats 

Oh, happiest of mortals, in an age 
Of legal separation and divorce ! — 
How many hear your story in re- 
morse I — 
Would Jack were patron-saint of husbands 

sage; 
That thou, madame, could wifely thoughts 
engage, 
Till maids and bachelors should have 

recourse 
As pilgrims to your platter, as a source 
Of grace that would their marriage qualms 
assuage ! 

Thus Time would canonize your names 

benign, 
Bards name you in the Daphn,is-Chloe 
line. 
And realists proclaim you glorious I 
92 



MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 

Stoic and cynic, too, would stand aside 
In awe before the maxim you provide,- 
"Non disputandum est de gustibus." 



The Philosophers 

"To bed," says Sleepy-Head the sybarite; 

"Let's stay awhile," says fatalistic Slow; 

"Put on the pot, we'll sup before we 
go," 
Says Greedy-Sot, Falstaffian polite. 
And on the bed the first enjoys the night; 

The second tarries in the chimney-glow, 

The glutton fills the pot to overflow, 
And eats until his jaws refuse to bite. 

But see, between the crannies of the door, 

The sunrise glinting on the tavern floor, 

Ere from the hills, the cocks have 

ceased to crow! 

Hark! Hark! — the knocker beats a loud 

tatto, — 
"Who's there without?"— "Death!"— 
"Death, and who are you?" 
"Unbar the door and each of you shall 
know!" 

93 



MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 

Black Sheep 

Bah, bah, old critics, have you any wool 
To spare a little poet down the lane? 
They say he's crying — poets will com- 
plain ! — 
Because he hears that you have three bags 

full. 
One for your master — old book-seUing 
bull!— 
One for your dame. (For rhyme's 

sake, call her vain !) 
They say that all the other can contain 
You need into the Public's eyes to pull. 

Why should you bother with the puling 

boy? — 

One little bah can drown his pipings 

quite ! 

Nay, but your master, if you should annoy, 

Can sheer a black fleece off as well as 

white. 
So when you would your smallest bah em- 
ploy, 
Make sure he finds it modulated right. 
94 



MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 

To Banbury Cross 
"A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a 
horse 1" 
And off, where Banbury's young woman 

springs 
With tinkling hosiery and finger rings 
Upon her snow-white hobby round the 

course ! 
Fling Shakespeare down, and as for prob- 
lems Norse, 
To grandma leave the Ibsen-Bjornson 

things ! — 
A pair of ankles Is as' good as wings 
Dramatic or poetic tours de force. 

There shall be music, too, where'er she 

goes. 

Not such as Wagner's endless scores 

beget, 

But warbling of the strings and piccolos 

In rhythms that gladden ballet and sou- 

brette — 
Till worries, duties, arts, and such, are 
set 
As naught beside the magic beat of toes. 

95 



MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 

Bo-Peep 

Vergil, Theocritus and Tasso, each 

Had glimpse of you; canson and pas- 

torelle 
In rarer times essayed your charm to 
tell; 
Watteau and Fragonard took brush to 

teach 
Their age what light Volture empearled In 
speech ; 
Till In the Trianon's embowered cell, 
Enraptured of your grace, a Queen 
would dwell 
From royal state afar, and sorrow's reach. 

Now our old world Is weary of Its arts, 
And wig and furbelow are put away. 
Mankind delights but In the simpler parts 
And winsome touches of a newer day; 
And so, Bo-Peep, from Saxe and Sevres, 
we stray 
To nursery paths where first you won our 
hearts. 

96 



MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 

Madam O'Shoe 

To none of our best sections a la mode 
Her family gave umbrage by its size; 
In fact, wise genealogists surmise 
'Twas some old shoe that served them for 

abode. 
Of course this happened ere the Building 
Code 
And the wondering world saw "Moth- 
ers' Clubs" arise, 
For specialists of microscopic eyes 
Pooh-pooh the form of treatment she be- 
stowed. 

How artless ! truly, how unsterilized ! — 

The way she fed and sent them whipt to 
bed! 

(The very thought gives pedagogic 
shocks 1) 
And yet her boys for brain and brawn 
were prized, 

Her girls such beauties they were quick- 
ly wed. 

And now are numbered with our best of 
stocks. 

97 



MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 

One Contrary 

Mary, Mary, why these cockle shells, 
And pretty maidens standing In a row? 
For once your Monna Lisa smile forego 
And soberly explain these silver bells. 
We've borne your purple cabbage, aspho- 
dels, 
Madonnas, nudes, and Breton peasants, 
so 
For pity's sake, be simple, let us know 
If dear Kate Greenaway In your memory 
dwells? 



Pray why, amid your raptures on Chavan- 
nes, 
Rodin and Beardsley, Manet and 

Burne-Jones, 
Should she be quite unmentioned in your 
tones? 
You pause? — and sadly our poor faces 
scan? 
Then In your Botticelli robes sweep by, 
Fixing a "Holy Grail" in either eye. 
98 



MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 

Boy Blue. 

Your little horn was heard by Tennyson, 
And Romney sketched you as you lay 

asleep; 
While in a fashion dating from Bo- 
Peep, 
Your flocks untended through the pastures 

run. 
How soon, O nursery Endymion, 

Across your haymow did the shadows 

creep I 
How soon the hours like wayward cows 
and sheep, 
Stole from your side until your youth was 
donel 



Did then some godlike rapture wing you 

high 
To far emprise? Or did some maiden's 

kiss 
Lead you on duty's pathways unto bliss? 
Or from that hour did childhood's bloom 

decay 

99 



MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 

From out your heart — ^the vision, from 
your eye — 
Save in some mother's memory — pass 
away? 



On The Tree-Top 

Rockaby, Baby, — mother must be gone, 
For club-elections will begin at eight; 
Tonight the incubator-stove can wait, 
I've hardly time to get my bonnet on. 
When the wind blows our sky-scrape flat 
upon 
'Twill rock your cradle, and should I be 

late, 
Ring up the elevator, dear, and state 
What time you'll have your breakfast-food 
to John. 

Rockaby, Baby, when we meet again, 
Who knows, but I shall be the Right- 
Supreme — 
Grand-President of Mothers — I can't 
lose ! — 
Ah, darling, won't .we both be happy 
then? — ( 

lOQ 



MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 

With editors to serve you with your 

cream, 
And watch your cradle, while I write 

my "views" 1 



Mother Hubbard 

Good Hubbard, who can tell thy poodle'§ 

plight 

Save Humperdinck in mimic roundelay? 

Who paint thy cupboard but Teniers? 

— Portray 

Thy homely features but Franz Halz by 

right ? 
As for the bone — delicious oversight 
Of scribe and painter ! — shall the annals 

say 
'Twas stolen by the thieves or elves 
away, 
Or by the canine pharisee at night? 

Yet food is here for thinking! We who 

wait 
Impatient for some cupboard to unclose, 
Mayhap already have licked clean the 

plate 

lOI 



MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 

Of life and Idly dream upon the bone, 
Until Dame Fortune, like old Hubbard, 

throws 
Her coffers wide, to show our treasure 

flown 1 



1 02 



IN THE CAFE EUROPA 

A SUDDEN shower and all of us were 
trapped 

In the cafe; they slammed the doors to 
shut 

The rain out; and the great throng 

Went on eating its breakfast or its lunch, 

For it was eleven in the morning 

And the lazy ones met the early ones 

At different ends of their day's work. 

The wild chatter of voices 

Went on unhushed by the rainfall; Spani- 
ard, 

Blackman and Indian, all with the grim- 
aces 

Of Central and lower Europe; 

Distinguished official sefiores, gallant sol- 
diers in khaki, 

Putting five tablespoons of sugar In a demi- 
tasse; 

103 



IN THE CAFE EUROPA 

Muscular Gallcians with small heads and 

fleshy shoulders; 
Beautiful eyes out of Africa as well as 

Spain; 
Golden skins of the Conqulstadores burnt 
By tropic suns and tropic bloods to the 

shades 
Of creamy browns and dusky reds. 
And the voices chatter In the raucous burr 
Of Spain, with overslnging of Indian tones 
And melting falls learned In the jungles 
From the escaped slaves of old. 
Here the fine logic of the renaissance, 
The spirit of the Fray Lulses and Queve- 

dos 
Is used to discuss the world-war, 
The reports of the railroad commissions 
Or the new steps of Maruxa, 
The beauty from the alleyways of Cama- 

guey. 
Soon again the rain Is over. 
And a sun from the golden book of Sevilla 
Breaks through the clouds, lighting anew 
Its candle of memories of the past, — 
Of a Sevilla without a Cathedral, 
A Sevilla without an Alcazar, — 
104 



IN THE CAF6 EUROPA 

A Habana with her blue sea like a Vega 

around her, 
Her golden-shaded people, 
Her American heart and Latin genius, 
Her love of liberty and native land. 
Her tourists in their new Panama hats, 
Her tolerance, her anti-Clericals 
With blessed medals pinned to their un- 
dershirts, 
Her adorable sinners 1 — 
There they throng out again 
Into the sun and the narrow streets, 
Dodging automobiles and trolley-cars, 
Glad in the sunshine, glad in the life 
And stimulation of her wines and coffee. 
Of her theaters, her hai-alai and opera- 
houses, 
Her Prado and Malacon and race-track, — 
Glad in the ghost-light of her liberty, 
For which her dusky revolutionists 
Fought and died, starved and suffered 

prison. 
For which her poets sighed and sang. 
Her mothers wept and prayed, — 
Glad in the impending compromise 
That will make of Cuba 
105 



IN THE CAFE EUROPA 

A crowned land of pleasure, 
An arc-light amid the Antilles, 
The center of our continental literature, 
The capital of Pan-America I 

La Habana, Cuba. 19 19. 



106 



THE SAVING VIRTUES 

It's this way, sir; — 
You see how her 

And me ain't had a bite, sir; — 
I'm sure you can, — 
Kind gentleman, — 

Oblige us with a mite, sir? 
A sixpence! — Thanks, 
Kind friend. There's cranks 

Insult the likes of me, sir, 
When I shows them Mag, 
And starts to brag 

About her pedigree, sir. 
But a gentleman knows 
How fashions goes 

With a fine hard-workin' lass, sir,- 
A trifle heady — 
A bit unsteady — 

But the virtues of her class, sir. 
There's them who say 
Hard things today 

107 



THE SAVING VIRTUES 

About old Mag, — I'll own, sir; 
It's false report — 
She's a decent sort — 

She never drinks alone, sir. 



1 08 



THE WIDOWY DRONE 

The Widow Malone 
Of the Town of Athlone, 
Since her Owen was thrown 
From his Donnybrook roan 
On his cerebral bone — 
(Bad cess to the stone!) — 
Not a sigh was she known 
To let out, nor a groan 
(Not even "ochone!" 
Did the creature entone!). 
But when Shamus McKeown 
From the Neo-Celt zone 
Of the Bois de Boulogne 
Came to ogle and drone 
O'er her teacup and scone, 
She'ld say "Whist ye, my own, 
I'm a poor decent crone, — 
Play no 'Darby and Joan' 
With the Widow Malone." 

109 



AN AUTUMN SONG 

The days of June and budding youth are 
over — 
This is the season of our middle-age; 
We've had our share of roses and of 
clover, 
And Autumn's embonpoint is all our 
wage; 
Still let the glass be filled, for old October 
Shall hear our praises down his echoes 
wing; 
Youth is intoxicate and we are sober — 
Any old bird can sing in spring. 

Our nests are empty and the waists so 
slender 
We've hugged as lads are now substan- 
tial grown; 
Our visionings to grayish fact surrender; 
Life has assumed a smooth monotonous 
tone. 

no 



AN AUTUMN SONG 

But Art is long — the Idle little poet 

Outlasts the coin that at his head they 
fling; 
Time's short — our fellow minstrel boys 
now show it — 
Any old bird can sing in spring. 

Of Phyllis and her tombstone quite suf- 
ficent 
Our youthtime sang; of dreadful sins 
and crime 
Our babbling lips have raised a note om- 
niscient 
And Death has gibed us with a calmer 
time; 
Surely the subtler moods have bowed and 
left us 
To snoring slumber and cool visioning; 
Yet of the song think not they have bereft 
us — 
Any old bird can sing in spring. 

So fare ye well, ye imagings pubescent, 

Ye "virile" idols and symbolic ills I 
Our youngsters hereabouts are not quies- 
cent 

III 



AN AUTUMN SONG 

But pipe your chants and add a thousand 
trills. 
For us the organ note of fate sonorous, — 
The mild beatitudes that age shall 
bring; 
Let's draw the nighttime blanket snugly 
o'er us — 
Any old bird can sing in spring. 



112 



THE SEA-WOMAN 

Pale his cheek — his step is slow, 
The fisher-lad of David's Cave; 

Only the waves his strong arm know 
Where his oars the black tides brave. 

Silent he goes and his eye is sad; 

He comes no more to the crossroad's 
dance; 
No maid on the coast his troth has had, 

No maid on the hills his glance. 

But at noon when the sea is smooth and 
still 
He turns his boat to the cavern's shade, 
Where chained and waiting his savage 
will 
A white sea-woman is laid. 

Caught in the rocks she has screamed and 
torn 
Her wonderful hair and her eyes are 
red 

113 



THE SEA-WOMAN 

From the tears and the shame her body 
has borne, 
And the pride of her heart is dead. 

"O Tegid, Tegid," she chants him there, 
"Lad of the burning mouth and eyes, 

Of the splendid shoulders and ruddy hair, 
Let me answer my people's cries — 

"Let me free of the gloom of David's 
Cave, 
Let me out again in the fields of the 
deep; 
They mourn for me upon every wave — 
They watch and wait without sleep 1" 

And the fisher-lad her chains released 
And pointed forth to the open sea; 

"Begone," he said, "my love hath ceased; 
You are no kin to me !" 

And now she follows his boat afar, 

And winds herself in his nets by night; 

His thoughts are of one on the harbor bar 
And the joys of the homing light. 
114 



THE SEA-WOMAN 

But she is pale with the dashing foam, 
And her voice is faint and hoarse and 
strange ; 

She pines in vain and returns not home 
Where the white sea-women range. 



"^ 



THE BROWN-STONE ROW 

It stretches down my memory 
Like a long brown valley 
High and narrow — 

The old street with brown-stone houses 
Where our boyhood's days were passed. 
There were trees and grassplots — 
For the old street was in Brooklyn — 
But they do not make the memory more 

lifelike — 
It seemed as though we were in some 

museum 
Of Egyptian relics, and the high walls 
Of papier-mache were shutting out the 

actualities 
And leaving us to a sort of existence 
In an artificial atmosphere. 
I remember, too, the strangely assorted 

people 
Who lived on our street; 
There was the old maid's house 
Where a baseball was in danger 
ii6 



THE BROWN-STONE ROW 

Of being seized if it should fall that way; 

There was the house, half-furnished, 

Of the Army officer whose daughter 

Was singing in light-opera, who had 

Wonderful books and fine furniture, but no 
shades 

To screen the windows; there was the 
family 

From South America with the growing boy 

Who used to regale us with scandalous 
tales 

About all the young girls in our neighbor- 
hood; 

There was the Jewish family, fat and 
well-fed, 

Who gave splendid concerts in summer- 
time 

When the windows were open; 

There was also the negro servant-boy who 
sang 

In a splendid falsetto voice; and the young 

girl, 

Delicate and pale, who drove out with her 
Shetland pony; 

And the Scotchman, dignified and minis- 
terial, 

117 



THE BROWN-STONE ROW 

Who used to come home staggering at 

times ; 
And the well-to-do clerk who remarried 
After years of widowhood and had new 

babies, much tp the disgust 
Of his son who rode so rapidly on two 

wheels 
Of his velocipede that we thought him an 

inspired creature; 
There was the old eccentric, whom we 

afterward found out to be 
A famous comic poet of wartimes, 
Who would never pass by a piece of paper 

on the street 
Without picking it up ; 
And the rich milkman's lovely daughters 
Who leaned all day out of the windows 
Chattering to the neighborhood boys; — 
What became of them all, I wonder, the 

boys and the girls? — 
The old people are dead, certainly — 
But how much did our old brown-stone 

row 
Contribute to life at large? Who sur- 
vived it? 



CATULLUS ANENT HIS LESBIA 

There's Lesbia, vowing she would rather 
Be mine, than that Almighty Father 

Jove besought her! — 
Swearing it, — yet, sublime deceiver, 
She hardly hopes we shall believe her; 

Since girls who plight such pledges write 
On air and water. 



119 



GUITAR SONG 

To the lyre my fingers throw 

Songs I would the world should know. 

Though my songs from lip to lip 
Float like butterflies that sip 
Sweetness down a vale of roses, 
Think not that my heart reposes; 
Nay, it is my heart's own beating 
The guitar doth keep repeating. 
But the singer's breast will beat 
With a throb no songs repeat, 
So while love the lyre is telling, 
The guitar remains his dwelling. 

To the lyre my fingers throw 

Songs I would the world should know. 



120 



TO JOYCE KILMER— JULY 30, 191 8 

Buried at the Wood of the Burned Bridge, 
near Seringes on the Ourcq 

The moon tonight looks on another 
mound, — 
Merely another of the heaps of clod 
And stones that stretch behind the battle- 
ground, — 
Another shadow and a cross of God. 

Afar, around, the giant guns are heard 
Booming their challenge to the shrink- 
ing foe; 
And underground the bodies still are 
stirred 
With tremors that the dead alone can 
know. 

For the great fight goes on, not yet all 
won. 
For all the valor folded into rest; 
121 



TO JOYCE KILMER— JULY 30, 191 8 

Blood on the morn, blood on the setting 
sun 
Signals the rallying forces to their quest. 

And he and they, untimely hurried down 
That josthng thoroughfare of Death's 
domain, 
Live in the shout, strike in the melee 
brown. 
And spread defiance from their ghostly 
reign. 

Their hearts are hot, no coldness yet hath 
seized 
Their limbs though shattered and reject 
they lie ; 
Their prayers, their dreams still live, as 
though it pleased 
Death that the fighter not entirely die. 

And you, O friend, O brother of gay years, 

There in the moonlight stretching calm 

and wise, — 

Lo, the lament for you ! — our idle tears 

Heavy with pride and grief within our 

eyes! 

122 



TO JOYCE KILMER— JULY 30, 1918 

You who put off the world and its allure, 
Its pomp and pose, to be an honest 
man; 
You who were ten times strong, whose 
heart was pure, 
A Christian hero, poet, artisan I 

There was a Michael in you who could 

slay 

The demon errors of nefarious schools; 

There was a Martin who could give away 

Half of his cloak despite the jeer of 

fools. 

There was a Joan with mystic eyes ablaze 
To seize the Cross-hilt sword and lead 
the fight; 
Dreams of the saints and angels made 
your days 
And all the world around you full of 
light. 

Child of the stoled princes of the past, 
Brother of all the lowly in the soil, 
123 



TO JOYCE KILMER— JULY 30, 191 8 

Among the Fishers were your deep nets 
cast, 
With the Assisian was your song of 
toil. 

And from your heart with its seraphic 
flame 
Sounded a paean of the streets and 
squares; 
A chant of glory from obeisance came, 
Making the trench into a heavenly 
stairs. 

Long, long, shall we remember you, the 
pride 
And unattended blessing of our 
throng — 
"An angel unaware" was at our side, 
And we half-knowing gladdened at your 
song. 

Listening half-attentive as we heard 
Music whose saintly purport scarce we 
caught, 
As of the note that some enraptured birH 
Amid the storm-swept forests useless 
brought. 

124 



TO JOYCE KILMER— JULY 30, 191 8 

But now, with all your promise and your 
youth 
Swept from us to that heavenly citadel 
Where reign the Light, the Love, the Joy, 
the Truth 
Of which your heart intuitive could 
spell. — 

We shall proclaim you man and citizen, 
Perfect and consecrate and catholic; 

The voice to sing the song of man to 
men, — 
Poet of God's designed world politic. 

We shall proclaim you model of our day 

For weakling Christian and renunclant 

heart; 

Our tears — our Idle tears — we brush away, 

And from your strength, new strength 

and courage start. 



1 25] 



THE SIGH FOR DEIRDRE 

As the proud bards mused in their manes 
of snow 
A trembling stole over the harp's gold 
frame, 
When the north-wind blew through their 
ponderings 
The gust on the strings that told her 
name. 

On their couches high lay monarch, chief, 
And scribe in grief and pined away 

In ancient sigh, and because of her 

Fell from the stir and the light of day. 

And now, when the rain of the night has 
ceased 
On the dripping eaves and the glow- 
worms streak 
The meadows with stains as of burning 
tears, — 
What peasant but peers for her fairy 
cheek? — 

126 



THE SIGH FOR DEIRDRE 

For them who fare o'er the lochs alone, 
Or watch and moan by the holy wells, 

Wan fingers prepare in the crystal deeps 
What the bosom keeps and no lips tells. 

Out by the stars, like a lost soul dis- 
traught, 

At the thought of her eyes, I am seized 
with a song 

Human utterance mars; all the chords of 
my soul 

Trembling mad with the roll that far ages 
prolpng. 

By the curve of her mouth, by her shoul- 
ders soft white 
I am slain with delight; yea, she haunts 
each lone place 
From the north to the south, like the 
dream of a child. 
And the dawn and the wild-roses strive 
for her face. 



127 



THE MOTHERS OF HEAVEN 

The mothers of heaven In starry throng- 
ing came 

Unto the Throne Most High, complaining 

That 'mid their bliss and rapturous ac- 
claim 

Their hearts found only loneliness in 
reigning : — 

"Lord, we are but poor foolish mothers 
after all 

Thy welcome and Thy coronal " 

Then forth The Voice o'er heaven: 

"O Gabriel of Archangels, dost not know 

That these are mothers? — Go, 

Ransack the worlds and skies 

Until to each be given 

Her deathless prize 1" 

And Gabriel hurled 

Himself from off the infinite crest 

Where night swept round the world; 

Until, fulfilled at last 
128 



THE MOTHERS OF HEAVEN 

The Will Omnipotent, unto the gate 

Of Paradise the mothers passed 

In pageantry most rare, 

And claimed victorious there 

The maimed, and weak, and reprobate, 

The failure, grief, and sin. 

The children of their breast. 

And bore their broken toys of life as 
trophies in 

Along the mornlit Forum of the Blest. 

The empyrean hushed, — far wonderment 

On radiant saint and angel fell 

As the Hosannas ceased, and they behold- 
ing bent 

And hearkened from the midnight's 
gloomy well 

The world's faint laughter mocking at the 
Throne 

Where on unshaken firmament 

God mused alone. 



129 



AD LIMINA 

She lingered near the gates of heaven 
Although the Angels waved her on 

Unto the Throne where bent the Seven 
At their eternal antiphon. 

She saw the happy mortals enter 

To Bliss at last and fold their wings; 

From out the pure Elysian center 
She heard their joyous gloryings. 

But one came not, though still she waited 
And held her heaven from her breast, 

Seeking the moment when 'twas fated 
His spirit too might come to rest. 

The Great Archangel down came flying; — 
"Why gaze you still toward earth so 
dim?"— 
She turned her gentle eyes, replying, — 
"I must be first to welcome him." 
130 



NIGHTINGALE TO THE LARK 

O STAY, joyous bird, ere thou wlngest 

The dawn to surprise, 
And weave with the carol thou singest 

The music that sighs; 
Then swift as the darkness is over 
Away with the song from the clover, 

And capture the skies I 



131 



ALGONKIN SPRING 

It was the gentle Southwind stole the first 
Around the Winter's lodge of snows; the 

elves 
Of sunlight then athwart Its glooms re- 
vived 
Pale NIpon's breast, and from her trance 

she sighed, — 
*^Who calls me from Kiwakwa's dread 

embrace?" 
"We," sighed the streams and rivers; 

moose and deer 
Came calling through the forests for their 

mates. 
Her eyes unclosing saw where, in his 

throes. 
He lay — his witchcraft gone I In vain he 

cried 
Unto his scattered hosts of sleet and rain, 
Till in the yellow morn he shrank to 

naught 

132 



ALGONKIN SPRING 

And vanished in a bursting stream of tears. 
Then at her couch the flower of miskodeed 
Put forth its silver token of the May, 
And on the branch above a bird began; 
And she, in tears: "It is the bluebird's 

song, — 
My childhood comes again at hearing him; 
He speaks to me of home, and Kmewun's 

eyes, 
And all the sweet companions of the south. 
Too long have I bereaved them; I will go 
And seek the pity of the hills, the grace 
Of all the vales and rivers of my south I" 
Swift up and down the streams the gossip 

elves 
Of sunlight hurried with the glad acclaim. 
As forth into the sun she fared, with joy 
Burst out the rivers shouting to the sea. 
And as she journeyed on the South Wind 

stole 
To bring her cheeks the crimson of the 

dawn; 
The sprites of morning twined her hair 

with flowers 
And wove her garments of the grass and 

leaves ; 

133 



ALGONKIN SPRING 

Whilst Kmewun, mother of the rain, alone 
Went up her highest hills in festival, 
And o'er the lakes and islands scattered 

showers 
And shimmering rainbows for her child's 

return. 



134 



FULFILMENT 

As that proud bird of eastern story- 
Did pluck away from Persia's crown 

The gem of wizardry and glory, 

I took my youth from Time's deep 
frown. 

In splendor shook the bird to heaven — 
So too my heart outshone the star — 

With burst of song its throat was riven, 
And glittering fell the gem afar. 

Thus I — O loveliness Elysian, 

Cool brows of dawn, and rose-mouth 
dreamt upon I — 
I turn to sing God's manifested vision, 

And find that youth is gonel 



135 



